Sentimental
by rupertgravesfan17
Summary: While John's down the pub with Lestrade, Sherlock reflects on his feelings. John comes home having had a few too many and feeling a bit affectionate. Things escalate quickly. Chapter 1 of who knows how many. The angst genre may be a bit misleading; Sherlock is always an angsty little shit, isn't he? T because reasons. Hope you like!


It was yet another drizzly London night, and John had gone to some pub with Lestrade in order to watch something or another. He'd made it sound important, but Sherlock was almost certain that it had to do with crowding around the television and watching oddly-dressed men running about on a pitch in an effort to assert their masculinity. He also guessed that there would periodically be some yelling, violent celebratory gestures, ordering of more lager and general drunken stupidity. In other words, neither significant nor enjoyable.

John had asked him if he'd like to come, but they'd both known that he would refuse. Still, Sherlock appreciated the gesture. It and a million other small things like it (making him food, telling him to sleep, actually _putting up with him_, for God's sake) were what kept him going when he was between cases.

He'd never say so to John, of course. He'd refused to acknowledge this even to himself in the beginning, just like he'd initially refused to eat the toast John made him. But over time all the self-denial had begun to hinder his work, and so he had long since decided to accept what his feelings were, and if they were a little embarrassing (which they very much were), so be it. Nobody else had to know.

Ever since then, he had been much more level-headed, especially since he always made sure to eat at least a couple bites of whatever John put in front of him and to sleep at least every 48 hours. He'd realised that, although the body was indeed just transport, it still needs to be kept in good condition, and John was the only reason he did so. Without him, he would be lost. Even his presence made Sherlock think more clearly, and his common sense and periodical vapid comments sometimes proved to be vital to cases.

Sherlock smiled at the thought, and checked the clock. His smile disappeared immediately. John had only been gone for 45 minutes. _Do sports last longer than that? _He supposed they did; he remembered Wimbledon taking positively ages. It was something he would have deleted, but John had been delighted by the fact that some fluffy-haired Scottish twit had won, so it had gone into the _John_ section of his mind-palace, a sprawling set of rooms growing larger by the day.

He wrenched himself from the sofa, walked to his bedroom and changed out of his suit. No point in keeping up appearances; John had, after all, once seen him in nothing but a bedsheet. He grabbed John's laptop, went back to the sofa and started reading John's blog, his ritual whenever John was away for extended periods of time. He grinned ruefully at his characteristic obsessiveness; it seemed that not becoming overly sentimental was rather a lost cause.

Sherlock was two-thirds of the way through his third read-through of John's blog posts when he nodded off. He slept deeply and dreamt of adrenaline-filled chases through the city he loved, with the man he loved by his side, as always. He did not hear the front door slam, nor the cacophony of footsteps on the stairs. He awoke to find John perched on the arm of the sofa, one hand stroking his hair. He blinked, unsure of what to make of the current situation. He did a thorough sweep of John's body, reading the signs.

_Three pints. Blood alcohol level approximately 0.09. Walked home (scenic route). His team won. _

Nothing unusual. What, then? He grasped the hand currently entangled in his hair and pulled it free, scanning it quickly.

_Phone number. Croydon. 0.12 mm ballpoint. Masculine hand. _Aha.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Being rather a charming man who practically radiated loveliness (in Sherlock's opinion), he got quite a few women chatting him up on a regular basis, but never men. Their admiration manifested in less overt forms, which John, being somewhat obtuse about such things, never really picked up on.

John grinned, rather smugly, replaced his hand in Sherlock's hair, and answered his unspoken question. 'Mmmmm-hm. Cute bloke.'

_Oh_. Sherlock had noticed some bisexual tells in his flatmate, but had always assumed that he wasn't aware of them. Clearly this was not the case.

'So? Is this..._bloke_ going to be your latest' - and here he actually shuddered - 'conquest?'

'No,' he said brightly. 'I told him to jog on. I've got someone much better, and we already co...cohabi…,' he frowned, clearly somewhat impaired by his alcohol consumption, '...share a flat.' He smiled broadly at that, and flopped down on the floor, scooting over to face Sherlock.

Sherlock hadn't noticed. This rather clumsy revelation had flipped his entire world upside down in a few mere seconds. He'd thought he would always be content simply to be near John; he would survive even if he could never be in a relationship with him or if he moved out, or (God forbid) got married, as long as he remained a constant in Sherlock's life. But now an entire new life presented itself, with myriad possibilities, and he didn't know how to handle them all.

He was wrenched from his thoughts by the warmth of John's hand on his. He watched, dumbfounded, as John pressed his mouth to the back of Sherlock's hand, and he was flooded with sensation; a rush of warmth that started at the point of contact and travelled through him, making his pulse race. He felt like his poor heart must be beating out an SOS, so frantic was its tempo.

_This is too much_, he thought, and he stood up quickly. He wanted desperately to stay, to tell John how he felt, but he knew that John was drunk and might not truly feel what his words and actions expressed. If that were the case, and Sherlock allowed himself to say too, he wasn't sure he would be able to face John when he was sober.

'John, you don't know what you're saying. You need sleep.' Sherlock pried his hand loose and walked swiftly to his room, ignoring John's mumble of protest. He would return after his friend fell asleep to make sure he hadn't broken any furniture (or bones) and then avoid him like the plague as long as possible. Cowardly? Maybe. But the longer he went without seeing John, the longer he could hold on to the hope that somehow his feelings really were reciprocated.

He smiled bitterly at the thought. _If only._


End file.
